The Time Traveling Detective
by Voodoo Doll Mana
Summary: The modern incarnation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson travel back in time to 1884 to meet a very peculiar Victorian detective to help solve the mystery of a mad butcher.  Story requires reality suspenders.
1. Flat Repairs

"They'll have to replace the wall," John sighed, eyeing the garish yellow smile warily. Sherlock muttered something petulantly into the cushions of the settee, his back to John. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had been sulking for three days since Mrs. Hudson announced that workmen would be coming to replace the bullet riddled wall.

"I don't want anyone in the flat, John," Sherlock groused, throwing a glare over his robe covered shoulder. "They'll touch everything and disrupt my experiments. The mess they'll leave-"

"'The mess _they'll_ leave'? Be serious Sherlock! Look at the mess _you've_ made!" John shouted, his hands sweeping out to indicate the sitting room. It was inundated with piles of papers, glossy crime scene photos, newspaper clippings, and an assortment of babble Sherlock insisted on having at hand. Sherlock raised one disdainful brow as he glowered at his flatmate. John huffed out a sigh, shaking his weary head.

"I'll make some tea then," he muttered. Sherlock smirked victoriously to himself.


	2. A Mystery In the Wall

John hung his coat up, wincing as his shoulder ached. It had a miserable day. The morning had started off cold and wet, making John's injured shoulder twinge. Matters had only gotten worse at the surgery when a very large patient had lost his footing on the slippery tiles. John had instinctually tried to stop the large man's fall but ended up under the pile with the majority of the man's weight resting on his bad shoulder. Of course the rude patient had then made rather vague threats of suing the surgery for improper floor care. Not even a nod of thank you towards John.

Dr. Watson let out a heavy breath as he started up the staircase into 221b Baker Street. A half stifled groan wedged in his throat as he pushed open the door to the flat and discovered a fine layer of white chalk covered every inch of the flat. John ran a hand over his eyes as he witnessed the large, jagged hole that had once been his apartment wall.

"Sherlock?" John called out, half hopeful the tall consulting detective wasn't buried somewhere under the rubble. It would have served him right though, the brat.

"Kitchen."

"Right," John muttered under his breath, "Probably flinched one of the workmen's sledgehammers and is having a go at it with some watermelons. 'Dispersal rate of brain tissue, John'."

John was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs. Hudson. He paused a moment, eyeing the two with heads bent together forebodingly. Mrs. Hudson looked up first, her matronly smile easing away some of John's initial fears.

"Hello John! Come see what the workmen found in the wall," Mrs. Hudson chirped, jumping to her feet to fetch the weary doctor a cuppa. John quietly took a seat across from Sherlock, his eyes roving over the table.

There were a few curios strewn across the table. One small leather-bound notebook, a couple of its yellowed pages spilling out the sides, a lace handkerchief with the initials _AK _embroidered into the corner with blue thread, an almanac dated 1884, a pair of tanned gloves, and the last piece of interest was a pocket watch. John noted the pocket watch with interest because it was clutched rather tenderly in the hand of Sherlock Holmes. The Consulting Detective had the silver watch's chain tangled in his long fingers with the opened watch nestled in the palm of his hand. His sharp blue eyes were not looking at the timepiece though, but to the side as if he was reading something engraved in the inside lid.

"Here you go Doctor," Mrs. Hudson murmured, jerking John out of his observation as she placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him and then hustled back to her seat next to Sherlock. She daintily picked up the leather notebook, flipping through the pages gingerly.

"What is all of this?" John asked, taking a sip of the tea. Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat that didn't sound very nice. Mrs. Hudson shushed good naturedly at the brooding brunette.

"The workmen where pulling down the wall when out tumbled this little sack. They didn't dare open it because they'd already had a rather stern lecture from Sherlock about his 'experiments'," Mrs. Hudson paused to shoot the man in question a glare. It went unnoticed. She continued, unperturbed. "The poor men were terrified it was a rotting cat or something equally distasteful so they brought it to Sherlock. We'd been having tea in my parlor, you see, so I was able to peek inside once Sherlock assured the men it wasn't his sack."

"I had hoped it was a surprise from Moriarty," Sherlock muttered. John winced, his shoulder throbbing again. Sherlock's eyes flickered over John quickly, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth questioningly. John shook his head at his all-seeing flatmate.

"Oh Sherlock! Don't bring up that dreadful brute again. After what he did to those poor people and my windows," Mrs. Hudson moaned softly, her hand touching her cheek fitfully. John smirked to himself, despite the conversation.

"The 'sack' as Mrs. Hudson so cleverly called it was actually a shroud of sorts," Sherlock butted in. "Nothing special about the shroud itself, but inside where the items you see before you. All of them property of one-"

"Aberdeen Knight," John cut it with a smile. Sherlock's brows went up as a flash of curiosity flashed through his blue eyes. Mrs. Hudson chuckled merrily.

"I see that some of Sherlock's tricks have been rubbing off on you John," Mrs. Hudson teased. Sherlock grimaced.

"They're not tricks, Mrs. Hudson, they're deductions."

"Actually, mine was a trick," John murmured before Sherlock could break into a tirade. He smiled at Mrs. Hudson, nodding his chin to the journal in her hands. "I read the signature upside down on the footer of the journal. _Aberdeen Knight, 1881_."

"Clever observation John," Sherlock replied offhandedly, his attention focused back on pocket watch. John felt a small swell of pride at Sherlock's praise.

"So this Aberdeen fellow wrapped up all these things in a shroud and then stuffed them away in our wall, but for what purpose?" John mused.

"They're clues," Sherlock replied loftily. John restrained his urge to roll his eyes.

"Knight," Mrs. Hudson murmured to herself, her eyes slightly distant as she looked away from them. "You know I remember that name? Mr. Knickerbocker down the street fancies himself a local historian. He came over for tea about a month ago and was telling me about the Knights. Roderick Knight in particular. The Knights were a small aristocratic family that was in decline. The eldest son, Roderick, had taken what remained of the family fortune and bought several houses on Backer Street to use as tenements. There was some sort of scandal involving Roderick and the family went bankrupt, sadly enough."

"Do you think this Aberdeen fellow is Roderick's brother?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock smirked and shook his head.

"I highly doubt Aberdeen is Roderick's brother, John," Sherlock replied tauntingly. John frowned.

"And just how do you figure that, Holmes? The quality of the pocket watch? The thread count on the handkerchief? The paper the almanac is printed on perhaps?" John grumbled. Sherlock glared at John for a moment then rolled his eyes.

"Look John, really look at the items!" Sherlock snapped. John's lips pursed with annoyance as he flickered his eyes over the display again, searching for the smallest detail. The small tanned gloves with tiny pearl buttons on the wrist. The lacy handkerchief. The delicate swirls of Aberdeen's signature. John blinked suddenly, his mouth forming a little 'o' of surprise.

"Oh," John laughed breathlessly as the pieces clicked into place.

"Yes, John, now you see it," Sherlock said. He sounded very pleased.

"What do you see John?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a bewildered tone. John grinned.

"Aberdeen Knight wasn't Roderick's _brother_ because Aberdeen was a _woman_."

"This woman to exact," Sherlock cut in, displaying the open pocket watch to them finally. Nestled in the cover plate of the watch was the portrait of a young Victorian woman.


	3. The Problem with a Pocket Watch

John studied Aberdeen's yellowed journal thoughtfully but he found himself quickly discouraged. Save for Aberdeen's signature in the footer of the journal, the rest of her writing consisted of codes and ciphers that made John's eyes itch. The woman had the tiniest, most cryptic handwriting he'd ever had the misfortune of coming across. Sherlock had already dashed from the flat as soon as Mrs. Hudson left; muttering something about new case and leaving John clean up. Typical really.

John put the journal aside and picked up the pocket watch. He clicked the switch, delighted as the watch face sprung open as quickly and cleanly as it had in its prime. Aberdeen's green gaze stared back at him from over her haughty nose, and quirked, sarcastic mouth. She was beautiful, but the portrait captured the aloof, officious air of aristocracy about her. John noted the auburn shade of her hair, the way one eyebrow rose up a touch higher than the other as if both questioning and appraising. John was drawn back to her eyes again, though. They were piercingly green set against a creamy complexion. John squinted at the portrait, fancying that he could almost see a couple of freckles on her high cheekbones and speckling her perked nose.

"John!" The front door banged as Sherlock hollered up the stairs. John sighed, rolling his eyes and went to the door of the flat. He opened it just in time to have the taller man thrust a box into his arms and brush past him, tossing his scarf and jacket on to the settee. Sherlock made a beeline for the kitchen, ignoring John's indignant sputtering.

"Sherlock!" John finally snapped, trudging after his flatmate, box still perched in his arms. Sherlock had already flung himself down at the table, pocket watch and journal clutched in his hands.

"There's a clue here I'm missing, John," Sherlock huffed with a frown. John frowned and set the box on the corner of the table. It was obviously marked with Scotland Yard's insignia, but a thick layer of dust on the top of it told John that no one had touched it in years. Her carefully pulled the top off the box and found a smaller box, some very old tattered folders, and musty scraps of cloth in the bottom of the box. John glanced up at Sherlock.

"What is this?" John asked, nodding to the box.

"It's what left of Knight's file. She disappeared without a trace in 1884 under mysterious circumstances. The police suspected her elder brother Roderick Knight was somehow involved but they couldn't prove anything," Sherlock snipped.

"And you plan on solving a 130 year old case because you found a few things stuffed in a wall?" John asked.

"A 127 year old case and they weren't 'stuffed in a wall' as you so brilliantly put it, John. They were hidden in the wall and waiting to be found. Aberdeen knew she was in danger and she placed them inside the wall," Sherlock snapped. John threw his hands up.

"And you can tell all that from looking at the things she's hidden in the wall, hm?"

"No John, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorted. He flicked his fingers towards the journal. "She wrote it all down in her journal."

"You can't have possibly figured out what she's written that journal," John groused. He crossed his arms moodily over his chest as he took a seat across from Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged one shoulder fitfully as he studied the open journal.

"Aberdeen used a mix of Greek, Chinese and Sanskrit mingled with a poor use of Gaelic to write in her journal. Rudimentary now but in 1884 it would have been a bit harder to decipher. The clue is her journal entry on April 22 1884 and the Colchester earthquake. It's completely arbitrary compared to Aberdeen's other notes. She almost never mentions anything in the news that isn't specific to one of her cases," Sherlock muttered.

"Her cases? What did Miss Knight do exactly?" John asked, leaning forward suddenly to study the journal. It still looked like madness to him but every now and then he saw a Greek letter he thought looked familiar.

Sherlock smiled almost to himself as he looked towards Aberdeen's tiny portrait.

"She was investigating the disappearances of 'undesirables' in the areas surrounding Baker Street. Our young friend was hunting a serial killer, John," Sherlock replied excitedly. John raised his brows in surprise then felt his stomach drop.

"Do you think the killer…?" Sherlock shook his head moodily.

"Not enough data yet to prove anything John but it's a possibility. Aberdeen was certain she was being followed, thus why she hid the journal in the wall."

"Yes, that's all well and good but why here? Why our wall?" John asked. Sherlock shot him a disdainful grimace.

"I thought that was obvious," he muttered.

"Not to me, Sherlock," John retorted. Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose not. Aberdeen hid these items in the wall, John, because this was once her home. The address is written into the hem of her gloves," Sherlock answered, holding the gloves out to John to examine. Sure enough in the inner lip of the gloves was _221b Backer Street, Miss Aberdeen Knight _written in the delicate swirls John was coming to relate to the young woman.

"Do you suppose she went by 'Abby'?" John mused aloud. Sherlock huffed, a hand skating across his eyes.

"What does it matter what she called herself, John? It's not important!" Sherlock growled. John shook off Sherlock's bitter retort and studied the gloves closer. They were well made and had probably cost Aberdeen a good deal of money but John could see areas that had been mended on the gloves. As well he could feel where parts of the gloves were thinned out. _Keeping up appearances_, John thought to himself as he gingerly laid aside the gloves. He fingered the lacy kerchief thoughtfully and turned his attention to the almanac.

"What do you suppose the significance is of this?" John asked, flipping through the pages. Sherlock's gaze flicked up for a second, a frown marking a line between his brows before he looked away again.

"Perhaps she passed notes through the almanac or perhaps she just wanted to note the year for anyone that found the stash," Sherlock murmured, waving a hand. John hummed in his throat as he studied the cover of _Whitaker's Almanack_. He flipped through it again and paused as he noted a little pencil mark under the astronomical section in the far back.

"Holmes, look at this," John gasped, coming around the corner of the table to show Sherlock what he'd found. Sherlock's brows shot up.

"Aberdeen's marked the date of every new moon with a name and location beside the date," Sherlock mused, taking the almanac from John's hands. He pointed to January, tapping the date.

"_Mary Tupper, 35, Pig and Whistle_," Sherlock deciphered from the scribble. John squinted at the seemingly unreadable note, shaking his head.

"I suppose it might be one of those missing 'undesirables'?" John asked. Sherlock nodded silently, his gaze skittering across the page and on to the watch. The pocket watch lay open on the table, Aberdeen's piercing green gaze peering back up at them. Questioning and appraising.

Sherlock had grown decidedly quiet as his finger slid down the line of moon phases, pausing on August 20 1884. John followed Holmes' movements, he quickly grasped that there were no more notes after July.

"Aberdeen Knight's housekeeper, Mrs. Martha Bradford, reported her missing two days after the August new moon. Mrs. Bradford's statement says that Miss Knight had a fight with her brother a week before her disappearance and two gentlemen were seen coming and going from Aberdeen's lodgings in the days prior to her vanishing. The police could never identify the men, but Mrs. Bradford insisted one of them was a doctor that served with Miss Knight's brother Gideon in India.

"When Scotland Yard searched Miss Knight's apartments they found nothing out of the ordinary save for a few pieces of men's clothing, which they attributed as remnants of her late brother Gideon Knight's wardrobe, a burnt placket letters written to Miss Knight from her fiancé Captain Alexander Hastings, and her father's pocket watch missing," Sherlock murmured, his eyes glazed over as he spoke. John picked up the pocket watch in question.

"At least we know what happened to the watch." John rolled the watch back and forth in his hands thoughtfully. The silver watch didn't have a speck of dirt on it, or even a shimmer of tarnish even after all the years hidden inside the walls of 221b Baker Street. It appeared as clean as the day Aberdeen Knight had stashed it away, save for the fact it wasn't ticking. On a whim, John wound the pocket watch. An electric buzz jolted through his fingers as he stopped winding the pocket watch. The minute hand inched backwards. Another more forceful jolt rocked through John, making him stumble.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, his vision tunneling around him. The Consulting Detective looked up with a puzzle glare that soon turned to horror. Sherlock burst from his seat, his hand reaching out towards Watson in what felt like slow motion to the former army doctor.

"John!" He heard Sherlock call from far away as he left himself falling backwards into a vast emptiness.


	4. An Unexpected Turn in Events

John hit the ground hard on his bad shoulder. He blindly reached out, trying to draw air into his lungs as another body fell forcefully on top of him. John forced himself to open his eyes and suddenly wished he hadn't. The dimly lit room spun wildly in front of his eyes. He blinked away the black spots in his vision, trying to focus on one solid object and stop the vertigo. The person next to him groaned, obviously experiencing the same sensation of displacement and dizziness.

"Watson?" Sherlock gasped out softly, his voice roughened.

"I'm here Holmes," John croaked back as he thrust his hand out to the side. His hand landed on Sherlock's back and John quickly grasped the back of the detective's shirt, centering himself. John blinked as the room began to come into focus.

"What happened to us Sherlock?" John asked. He was answered by the distinct cocking of a pistol.

"The better question is what are you doing in my flat?"


	5. The Impossible Refuses to be Eliminated

"The better question is what are you doing in my flat?"

John's entire body tensed even as his brain processed the woman's voice. Sherlock held perfectly still under John's hand. A young woman slowly stepped into John's line of vision, a small pistol pointed at his chest. John sucked in a startled breath as he stared into the haughty face of Aberdeen Knight.

"It can't be…" John whispered.

"Oh I assure you, sir, that this is my house and you are trespassing," Aberdeen sneered, the pistol held steady in her dainty hand. She toed Sherlock's foot, giving the taller man a nudge.

"Roll over. I make it a point not to shoot strange men in the back," Aberdeen snapped. Sherlock groaned and rolled on to his back. He held up his hands and John could see Sherlock's chest heaving still as the taller man tried to focus on their new surroundings. John followed Sherlock's lead, raising his hands as well. The silver pocket watch tumble from his numb fingers and bounced off his chest. Aberdeen's eyes rounded the moment she saw the watch.

"How did you…" She froze, her eyes flickering to the far wall nervously. John looked at the wall from the corner of his eyes, noting that it looked freshly painted but otherwise undisturbed. Aberdeen's eyes shifted back over them with a sharper level of knowledge. John suddenly felt like a specimen pinned open for dissention under Aberdeen's cutting gaze.

"Get up, both of you," Aberdeen growled, motioning to them with the pistol. John's knees felt watery as he pulled himself up, his shoulder burning with pain. Sherlock swayed for a moment as he stood to his full height before he collected himself entirely. Aberdeen's cheeks were flushed as she stared hard at the pair of them, her freckles standing out against her pinked cheeks. She held out her left hand, the gun still clutched in her right, to John.

"The watch, hand it over," she ordered sternly. John could tell from her tone that she was a woman use to giving orders and she expected them to be followed. He slowly knelt and picked up the watch from the floor then dropped it in her out stretched palm. Aberdeen snatched her hand back and pressed the watch her chest. John finally noticed Aberdeen's evening gown. It was a lush scarlet taffeta that must have cost a small fortune. John frowned, worried that he'd been wrong about his deduction of Aberdeen's gloves. A knock on the hall door broke off his thoughts.

"Miss Knight is everything alright? The Captain and I heard a loud crash in the parlor," a wispy female voice called out. Aberdeen frowned, her eyes never leaving them.

"I'm alright Mrs. Bradford, no need to worry. I was careless and knocked over a side table is all. Please tell Alexander I'll be down in just a moment," Aberdeen called back. John could barely hear the retreating footsteps over the pounding in his ears. Aberdeen's face softened slightly.

"You," she ordered, motioning to Sherlock, "Help your mate over to the sofa. Step lightly now." Sherlock took John by the elbow, helping him over to a sofa positioned in front of the fireplace. Sherlock took a seat on the arm of the sofa while Aberdeen stood to the side. John's shoulder burned fitfully, his head pounding as he let it fall back against the cushions.

"He has an old war wound," Sherlock spoke for the first time to Aberdeen. She nodded thoughtfully.

"I figured as much. Afghanistan or India?" she asked, her pistol lowering a fraction. Sherlock's brows went up.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Afghanistan or India. Where was your friend injured?" Aberdeen replied slowly as if Sherlock was daft.

"How did you-" Sherlock was cut off by a wave of Aberdeen's hand.

"His skin is slightly browned but only to the cuffs and collar. That means he was somewhere tropical of late but not on holiday. His stance says military. Recent injury means somewhere that there's fighting. So Afghanistan or India. Simple really," Aberdeen answered. Sherlock stared at the young woman in disbelief.

A second more forceful knock came from the hall. Aberdeen frowned deeply and uncocked the pistol. She stealthily hid the small pistol inside her bodice before she nodded to Sherlock.

"Keep an eye on your friend. I'll be right back," Aberdeen ordered. Sherlock only stared at her. She grimaced but left. John heard the hallway door open and close behind her.

"Come along John we have to see this," Sherlock hissed as he jerked John up off of the sofa. The detective dragged his companion over to the door and cracked it open a sliver to peer out into the hall. John could barely make out Aberdeen's bustle through the crack.

"Abby what are you doing up here. Our coach has been waiting outside for ten minutes and you haven't even put on your gloves!" An indignant man's voice snapped. Aberdeen sighed.

"I'm sorry Alexander but I've taken ill suddenly. Please go on without me," Aberdeen murmured.

"This is the Captain's Jubilee, Aberdeen. I'll be the laughingstock of the gala if I show up alone. If this is how you plan on acting as my wife…"

"Alexander!" Aberdeen gasped. "You know I am going through a difficult period with my brother's death. Please don't threaten me in this way."

"I'm sorry Abby," Alexander replied, sounding mollified, "I realize your still mourning Gideon's passing but it's been six months. We should be celebrating our engagement. Gideon would have wanted you to be happy."

"Please Alexander, I need time," Aberdeen whispered. John pictured tears in her green eyes.

"Of course Aberdeen, I would never have it in my heart to rush your mourning. But at least allow me to call a surgeon to look in on you?" Alexander pleaded.

"I'll send Mrs. Bradford to fetch my doctor," Aberdeen assured him gently. Sherlock slowly closed the door but John could just make out Alexander gently kissing Aberdeen's forehead through the narrowing slit. Sherlock hastily moved John back to the couch, rearranging them perfectly before Aberdeen reentered the room.

"He's not right for you," Sherlock immediately noted. Aberdeen frowned.

"You know nothing about Captain Hastings," Aberdeen told him sharply. Sherlock smirked.

"His family is new money, probably textiles judging by the quality of your dress. A woman of your coloring would never have chosen scarlet for herself, thus it's a gift. Too provocative to come from a family member, so it's from your fiancé. His engagement to you is an attempt to buy into the aristocracy. You're family's fortune is in decline judging by the fact that you're engaged to a commoner. The engagement was probably arranged by your brother in an attempt to garner money from his new in-laws. You've settled for Captain Hastings because he's light handed with your….quirks," Sherlock finished with a flourish. Aberdeen smirked.

"Right on all counts, Sir. Alexander does appreciate my 'quirks' as you call them. He calls them my '_farce petit'_. He finds me absolutely brilliant and he's never scolded me for my observations," Aberdeen replied nonchalantly.

"He's still boring," Sherlock sighed.

"And you haven't even had to waltz with him," Aberdeen joked with a half-smile. Sherlock grinned. Aberdeen shifted, pulling her pistol again from her bodice but didn't cock it or point it at them again. Instead she let it hang at her side as she moved to sit across from them.

"I suppose I should know your names now that we have the evening together," Aberdeen murmured, leaning her chin into the palm of her hand.

"This is Dr. John Watson and I'm Sherlock Holmes," the detective answered with a half mocking bow. Aberdeen's eyes flickered over John with interest.

"How are you feeling now Dr. Watson? It seems some color has returned to your pallor," Aberdeen asked gently.

"Now that the room has stopped spinning, much better, thank you," John answered, rubbing his shoulder. Aberdeen frowned prettily.

"You there, House-"

"Holmes," Sherlock grimaced.

"Fetch the rug off of the desk in the corner there for Dr. Watson," Aberdeen ordered. Sherlock reluctantly dragged himself away from the fireplace. Aberdeen turned to Watson with a frown.

"Really Dr. Watson, you should be heavier handed with your servants. I've never met such a slothful valet before." John gave a startled bark of laughter that made Sherlock prickle indignantly.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Miss Knight. I am not John's valet. He's my colleague," Sherlock snapped, tossing the rug to John. Aberdeen raised one challenging auburn brow.

"And so familiar too. I fear you'll never receive a proper position in a household with those manners Mr. House," Aberdeen scolded.

"It's Holmes!"

"Quiet Sherlock," John murmured, pulling the blanket around him thankfully. "She's just trying to wind you up because of the Captain Hastings comments." Sherlock's face flushed.

"I knew that," he growled.

"Of course you did," Aberdeen replied softly, her smile less cutting. She rose slowly and went to a rope hanging beside the mantle and tugged it. Below them a little bell tolled. Aberdeen smiled and took her seat again.

"My housekeeper Mrs. Bradford will bring some tea for us. I have the feeling we have a lot of discussion ahead of us tonight. First being how you appeared in my home and secondly how you came to possess my father's pocket watch," Aberdeen informed them as she folded her fingers under her chin. There was a moment of silence before she frowned. "You may begin anytime now."

Sherlock quickly began pouring out the strange facts of the evening as he pace in front of the hearth. Aberdeen's eyes followed him in a half lidded manner, but John could see the gears working swiftly behind those jade colored orbs.

"-and then we fell on to your sitting room floor," Sherlock finished.

"My study, actually," Aberdeen corrected sleepily.

"Study," Sherlock amended with an inclining of his curly head. Aberdeen smirked and looked to John.

"This all seems-"

"Unbelievable?" John offered.

"Sudden," Aberdeen finished. She shifted in her seat, setting the pistol on a side table. The hallway door creaked open as a tiny middle aged woman bustled in.

"You're tea Miss Knight," the older woman muttered, eyeing the two men nervously. Aberdeen smiled gently to her housekeeper.

"It's alright Mrs. Bradford. These gentlemen were friends of Gideon. They've been in America of late and wanted to pay their respects," Aberdeen informed the old woman smoothly. The woman's eyes flitted over them distrustfully still.

"Guests this late at night? I didn't hear them come in the front stairs," Mrs. Bradford said. Aberdeen smiled silkily.

"They used the backstairs, Mrs. Bradford. I didn't want them upsetting Captain Hastings. You know how jealous he can be," Aberdeen sighed. Mrs. Bradford 'hrmp'ed bitterly and waddled back towards the door, muttering under her breath _'isn't right having men up here this time of night, not right at all-'_. Aberdeen waited a long moment until they heard Mrs. Bradford clashing around in the kitchen before she spoke again.

"Mrs. Bradford might seem a touch cold but she's very loyal. Her husband was a wicked drunk that beat her so badly he broke her leg, giving her that limp. I took her in and she's cared for me ever since. Sometimes she seems to forget she's my housekeeper and not my nanny," Aberdeen explained with a level of endearment in her voice. John smiled, taking a cup of tea as Aberdeen offered it to him.

"John's often the same way," Sherlock murmured, taking a cup of tea from Aberdeen as well. John glowered at the taller man until he noticed Sherlock was smirking at Aberdeen. John glanced at the young woman and caught her sharing a secretive smile back.

"I'm obviously missing the joke," John sighed. Aberdeen laughed.

"I'm afraid you are the joke, Dr. Watson. But please, let us focus on the matter at hand. You've been transported back to 1884 by my father's pocket watch and you're telling me in eight days I'll disappear without a trace because of this scoundrel I've been following?" Aberdeen questioned in a level tone.

"That's what it seems to be," John responded. Aberdeen frowned, looking away from him. Her face seemed much younger in the low lit room, a crease of worry beading her brow. Even Sherlock remained silent as Aberdeen brooded.

"I suppose if the impossible refuses to be eliminated…" Aberdeen drawled off. Sherlock's eyes sparked with delight.

"Exactly Miss Knight! We have eight days to find the murderer and save your life. The game is afoot!"


	6. More Valuable Than Money

John blinked sleepily as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. It looked like his room. It felt like his room. His body told him he was in London, on Baker Street, but something felt wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it.

"Shush John, you're thinking too loud," Sherlock grumbled. John shot up in the bed and immediately regretted it as pain tore through his shoulder and arm. Sherlock watched him sleepy eyed from a chair pulled up beside the bed, the detective's feet propped up on the footboard. John gapped at the man as his eyes skimmed over his strange clothes. Sherlock had somehow managed to acquire a navy three piece suit, a derby hat, and a pipe. The last of which he was puffing away at merrily, clouding up the bedroom. John blinked at him, trying to remember why Sherlock was dressed like a Victorian gentleman.

"We're in 1884, John. You wound Aberdeen Knight's pocket watch and we were brought back to meet her. We have seven days to discover why she disappears and stop the crime and we haven't a moment to waste. Now get up and wash your face in the basin. Aberdeen assures me that there's a suit in the wardrobe that will fit you but I warn you to be delicate with them. Miss Knight is lending you her brother's clothes," Sherlock cautioned him. John rubbed his eyes.

"Who's brother?"

"Gideon! Really John, you're always telling me to be more thoughtful of people's feelings."

"Sherlock, what has gotten in to you?" John grumbled, crawling out of bed. His leg was aching now too, probably due to the very large bruise on his thigh and knee. He limped over to the basin and splashed his face with the lukewarm water. John opened the wardrobe and pulled out a nice brown tweed suit that looked about his size, a pressed linen shirt, and a pair of polished loafers. The clothes actually suited his tastes, he decided with a little smirk. He glanced at Sherlock nervously as he laid out his borrowed clothes on the bed.

"Do you mind?" John asked, nodding to the door. Sherlock scoffed.

"You're a medical man John, been in the army. Are you afraid of a little nudity?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm afraid you'll deduce the number of sexual encounters I've had in the last month by the size of my penis, or if I was breast fed or bottle fed by the way I put on my shorts," John snarled. Sherlock raised a long black brow tauntingly.

"Three, all women, and you were breast fed," Sherlock informed him haughtily before he trudged out of the bedroom.

John felt a little less agitated as he limped downstairs into what was his sitting room but was Aberdeen's study. A tea tray piled with pastries and scones was already waiting when he arrived. He heard Aberdeen's silvery tones coming from what the area that was the kitchen in his time. He poked his head into the room and was surprised to discover a sort of small laboratory. Aberdeen was showing Sherlock something under a microscope.

"As you see the liquid turns lavender when it comes in contact with blood. Unfortunately it can't differentiate from human or animal blood, but the ability to find a large amount of blood that someone might have tried to clean away opens up a whole new level of investigation," Aberdeen said proudly. Sherlock looked up from the microscope with an almost smile to look at the woman.

"It's truly brilliant, given what little resources you have," Sherlock commented. Aberdeen's cheeks flushed as a distasteful grimace marred her pretty mouth.

"I am so sorry my inferior equipment and resources don't meet your high standards, Mr. House!" Aberdeen snarled.

"It's Holmes," Sherlock snarled right back. Aberdeen turned on her heel and walked away. She spotted John immediately and her entire face dropped. A tiny, sad smile flickered across her mouth.

"I'm glad to see Gideon's clothes fit you Dr. Watson," she murmured, brushing a fleck of absent dust from his lapel. John smiled as he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and escorted her to the sofa. Aberdeen took her seat across from him like the night before, the tea tray laid out on the coffee table in front of them. Sherlock sulked over reluctantly as John tucked into his second pastry.

The peaceful breakfast was disrupted suddenly by the pounding of feet on the stairs. The door to the study was flung open without pause as a brawny, well dressed gentleman burst in. Aberdeen immediately sunk back in her chair, her face twisting with dismay.

"Abby what do you think you are doing!" the gentleman shouted without preamble. Aberdeen sighed and turned to her guest with a chagrined smile.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, allow me to introduce my brother, Sir Roderick Knight."

"Who are these men? Mrs. Bradford says they crept in here last night and made you send away Captain Hastings. Imagine my surprise when I receive a telegram from Hastings saying you've taken ill again! This is the third time you've quite an engagement with Captain Hastings, Aberdeen," Roderick carried on. He glared at the pair.

"And who exactly do you two think you are?" Roderick snapped peevishly.

"Mr. Holmes was at university with Gideon and Dr. Watson served with Gideon in India. Please Roderick, sit and have a cup of tea before you burst another button off that lovely waistcoat," Aberdeen tutted. Roderick's fury abided a bit but his face remained stormy.

John studied Sir Roderick Knight over the rim of his tea cup. The suit was expensive and tasteful, but it was too snug for Roderick's thick frame. There was also a fair bit of dirt and smudges on the man's shoes. John glanced at Aberdeen, noting her clothes today were much less formal then the taffeta evening gown. Her clothes fit her form nicely, but they were of a lesser quality than expected of an aristocratic woman. John smiled to himself, suddenly glad for his little lessons in deduction from Sherlock.

"Mrs. Bradford says these friends of Gideon stayed here last night," Roderick started again, his fury more controlled now. "Abby, please think of what the neighbors will say if they hear of this. Think of what will happen to Alexander's reputation!"

"Roderick, calm yourself. These gentlemen stayed in Gideon's rooms all evening and I locked my chamber door. It remained locked until this morning when Mrs. Bradford came to fill the basins. As well, Gideon's friends were robbed on their way here, having just arrived back in England from an extended visit aboard in the United States. Think of it, Roderick, your first time home to England in seven years and your robbed! Do you expect me to simply turn away these men, friends of our late brother, in such a state? No money for a room, for food, or even a proper set of new clothes? Really Roderick, think of your Christian charity," Aberdeen admonished her elder brother. Roderick's ears turned red as he glared down at his tea cup.

"You could have given them a bit of money for a hotel, at least," Roderick scolded. Aberdeen shot her brother a pitiful look.

"Roderick, I simple don't have the budget right now for such a luxury," Aberdeen whispered modestly, casting her eyes aside in the perfect imitation of an ashamed young woman. Roderick cleared his throat and reached out to pat her hand.

"Very well Abby. But if these gentlemen continue to stay here for the time being, I insist on you having a chaperone. I'm sure Great-aunt Catherine would enjoy a trip into town," Roderick sighed.

"Oh Roderick, please don't! At least send for Cousin Lucy or Regina! Anyone but Great-aunt Catherine. She's a terrible spinster that will eat all of my food and bark at my guest like some foul harpy. Let's not even mention that dreadful hound of hers…" Aberdeen finished with a shudder.

"It's a poodle, Abby, but I'll see if our cousins are obliging. Until then, Mrs. Bradford will be acting as chaperone," Roderick ordered. Aberdeen blew out a disdainful sigh, her face taking all the haughtiness John remembered from her portrait.

"If you insist, I suppose I must relent to your wishes," Aberdeen murmured chastely. Roderick nodded.

"Well I suppose, since you gentlemen are already here, that you should tell me all about your tales of Gideon," Roderick said, finally addressing them directly. John's tea cup clanked on the saucer guiltily. Sherlock hummed a low note in his throat as he set aside his cup with far more grace.

"Gideon always spoke with such candor about his sister that I felt I knew her before we met. I was disheartened to learn he'd passed on so early," Sherlock trailed off as if he'd actually felt saddened. Roderick let out a heavy breath.

"Yes, Gideon's passing came as a surprise to all of us. Malaria. Dreadful business. You'd know all about malaria, Doctor? Serving in India and what not," Roderick mused.

"Yes. I was only there briefly until skirmishes started in Afghanistan. I met Gideon once in the hospital but he left quite the impression upon me. I thought his sister should know he thought of her fondly, even in his own decline," John added, patting Aberdeen's folded hands tenderly. She smiled at him kindly, despite the lie.

"Still," Roderick mused, "Dying of malaria in an army hospital instead of on the frontlines. Terrible way to go, no real dignity in it. But that was Gideon, God rest his soul. All heart and adventure and no common sense." Aberdeen shifted uneasily in her seat, her face turned away from her brother. John could see a flush of red crawling across her cheeks, her jade eyes snapping with anger.

"I was always under the impression that Gideon was a rather brave man," Sherlock butted in. John glanced at his friend, surprised to see the amount of icy disdain he was shooting at Roderick. The thickly built man prickled under the detective's piercing gaze.

"Bravery and stupidity go hand in hand as I see it, Mr. Holmes," Roderick said bitterly. "All this running about fighting each other, what profit does it really make us?"

"There are things more valuable to men then money, sir," Sherlock responded.

"What could possibly be more valuable than money?" Roderick laughed.

"The truth," Sherlock replied dismissively. Roderick glared and rose up from his chair.

"I think I've had about enough of this. Goodbye gentlemen. Please don't take advantage of my sister's charity by plaguing her with notions of our dead brother's exploits. Abby," he turned to address his sister, "I hope you'll make amends with Captain Hastings quickly. He's too good a man to be treated so coldly. You could do a lot worse in a husband." And with that, he left.


	7. A Holmesian Promise

Sherlock sat brooding before Aberdeen's hearth, pipe tucked between his teeth as he puffed away. John grimaced, leaning heavily on the cane Aberdeen had somehow conjured up for him, along with a shaving kit and several pressed suits. Sherlock as well had received a small amount of tailored gifts from their hostess, including a lovely brass handled magnifying glass he was now twirling between his long fingers. John let himself slip down into the chair beside Sherlock, sighing as the cushions tenderly sucked him in.

"No nicotine patches in 1884," John teased lightly, motion with his cane to Sherlock's pipe. The detective grunted around the long stemmed pipe.

"I find myself growing rather fond of the pipe," Sherlock muttered. John laughed.

"Mrs. Hudson would have kittens if you took to smoking a pipe in the flat."

The study door opened up admitting in a handsomely dressed Aberdeen. John smiled rather fondly at the young woman as she swept into the room, her traveling dress dancing around the toes of her boots teasingly.

"I thought a tour of the neighborhood was in order, gentlemen. A little reacquainting ourselves with golly old England," Aberdeen told them in a blithe manner. Sherlock was on his feet instantly, instinctually heading for the coat rack beside the door. He paused, hand poised over the empty air before turning back to Aberdeen almost sheepishly. She smiled knowingly.

"Mrs. Bradford has everything you'll need downstairs in the parlor. I suggest you treat her with as much courtesy as you can muster if you want to eat dinner tonight," she teased.

"I never eat while I'm on a case," Sherlock informed her, "Digestion slows me down."

"Oh yes," Aberdeen replied dejectedly, "My impending vanishing." Sherlock moved before John could blink, inserting himself in front of the young woman. He gripped her shoulders in both of his hands and peered into her face with all of his attention.

"I swear to you Aberdeen, if I have to live the rest of my life out in this time, I won't let this fate come to pass for you," Sherlock swore. John's brows went up on his forehead, his lips pursing together. This was an interesting turn of events, and judging by the startled blush creeping into Aberdeen's cheeks, she thought so as well.


	8. A Historical Tour of Baker St

John was pleasantly surprised to find that the basic layout of Baker Street had remained largely unchanged by their paradoxical time shift. Though the street was far more crowded and dirtier, it was still the Baker Street he was familiar with. His favorite pub, he was equally delight to discover, was open in 1884 and serving the same swill. John reframed from dropping in for a pint. Instead he limped behind Holmes and Knight as Aberdeen pointed out a few of her "favorite" spots in the neighborhood. John quickly understood that this was a code between the two for areas that the victims had disappeared from. So far Aberdeen had confirmed that the New Moon Killer had taken at least fourteen women and girls from the areas around Baker Street, but she thought the number could be as high as twenty-five.

Sherlock poked and prodded through Aberdeen's grime scenic tour with all the delight he showed at a modern crime scene. John smiled to himself, glad to see some things would never change. The trio spent the majority of the day backtracking through claustrophobic alleyways, litter strewn side streets, and murky back lots. As evening fell, Aberdeen halted their little venture at a local pub called the Pig and Whistle.  
>The pub was loud, crowded, and full of local color. John warily eyed the rowdier patrons as Aberdeen pushed through the throng of drinkers to a back corner. The young woman quickly claimed a back table for herself and set about a sort of court meeting. John sat on her left while Sherlock sat on her right, paying witness to the strange proceedings. One by one the locals approached Aberdeen with their problems. Aberdeen offered them solutions in exchange for information about the streets. Several times large workmen stumbled over to the table with no greater query than a dance from the woman. Aberdeen always respectfully declined the offers.<p>

As three hours of this court meeting came to an end, a graying hair man in a black suit and bowler approached the table. He had a weasel-like face and beady black eyes. John immediately disliked the man.

"Inspector Kelly," Aberdeen acknowledged the man as he came to her table with an incline of her head. He smiled, a wide gaped tooth horror, and slid into a chair across from them.

"Ev'ning Ab'den. I'v some news f'r you. 'Dis com's straigh' from the top, yah?" Kelly chanted in a thick accent. Aberdeen wrinkled her nose thoughtfully as she looked away from the inspector. Instead she looked at Sherlock, a small grin playing across her mouth.

"Holmes, Inspector Kelly's been to Whitechapel. Enlighten him please," she murmured. John sat up a little straighter, eyeing the nervous Inspector as Holmes' gaze turned on to his with razor sharp precision. John realized this was a test Aberdeen was giving Sherlock, testing him against her own skills.

"The mud on the Inspector's shoes is a rare tawny color that's only found in the areas surround Whitechapel. There's a hint of gunpowder on his lapels and cuffs, meaning he's been in an armory recently, probably Scotland Yards. The sole of his right shoe has recently been repaired and there's a maker's mark on the heel, Briggs's and Sons. They're found just outside of Whitechapel. An easy spot for a man on his way to work in Scotland Yard to get a mend," Sherlock replied. Aberdeen smiled with a little nod. Inspector Kelly fidgeted, tucking his right foot behind the leg of his chair.

"Inspector Kelly's been in Whitechapel with a prostitute," Aberdeen added.

"How did you-?" Kelly was cut off by Aberdeen.

"The tips of your ears where flushed when you sat down, but the weather's too warm for it to be wind chap. I deduced that it was from a pleasurable encounter. As well, you clothes smells faintly of chrysanthemum, a perfume the girls of Whitechapel tend to favor. And last, but not least Inspector, your fly is undone," Aberdeen retorted with contempt. The Inspector's entire face burst into an ugly purple smear.

"Had yo'r laugh now sweetheart?" Kelly gripped, fixing his fly.

"I've had just about enough of your company as well, Inspector," Aberdeen rejoined. Kelly sniffed bitterly.

"I ex'pect you'll be want'in that bit'o talk I hav', em? Wells now you'll hav tu' work fors it. Nuthin's for free, love," Kelly purred. Aberdeen scoffed at the man. She shook her head as she tossed a tiny leather bag on the table. Kelly's finger snatched it up from the table like a rat on a morsel of cheese.

"Aw'ful light I's think," Kelly mused.

"You've done nothing not annoy me, Kelly. I don't pay to be bothered," Aberdeen snapped. Kelly tucked the bag of coins into his coat.

"Hav' it yor way, love. Last week the boys fish'd a float'r out of the Thames. Real blott'd bas'ard wearin' a flower'd apron. I recognized it right away from the yell'r flowers on her apron. Was Mary Tupp'r, me hand to God!" Kelly drawled, rising up his left hand in an oath. Aberdeen frowned, her fingers threading together under her chin.

"One day Inspector, God or some starving cur is going to take that filthy hand of yours for all the swearing you do upon it," Aberdeen warned him. Kelly grinned his jack-o'-lantern smile, making John shudder. "Tell me, Mary's body. Is it still in the morgue?"

"Aye, it's still d'er," Kelly replied warily.

"Could you get me into the morgue?" Aberdeen pushed. Kelly baulked, his eyes squinting at them nervously.

"What do y'ah want with the poor woman's body?"

"I have to examine it, Kelly," Aberdeen hissed. "I have to see what the killer did to her so I know how he hunts. So I can stop him." Kelly wavered, looking around the pub nervously.

"Al'right, for you I'll do it. But this once only. Com' er tomorrow at six and I'll take you to Mary," Kelly promised before he bolted from the table. Aberdeen let out a heavy breath as she sunk back into her chair. John felt a sad thrill of anticipation jerk in his belly.

"I don't think I'll ever complain about Lestrade again," Sherlock finally murmured. John burst into laughter. He kept rolling in it until tears came to his eyes.

"Don't even lie to us, Sherlock. You'll find a million things wrong with Lestrade the minute you clap eyes upon him again," John giggled. Sherlock smirked, shaking his dark head.

"I think I'd even take Donovon's witless banter over another meeting with Inspector Kelly."

"What about Anderson?" John inquired teasingly. Sherlock shot his friend a dark look.

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm a genius, not a saint."


	9. A Gentlemen's Disagreement

Aberdeen was withdrawn as they returned to 221b Baker Street. Mrs. Bradford had a pot of tea and a roast prepared for their return. John and Aberdeen ate in silence while Sherlock paced the study. After about an hour, Holmes locked himself in Aberdeen's laboratory.

"I'm sorry to have to ask Aberdeen, but I feel it's necessary to keep up the charade. Can you tell me a bit about your brother Gideon?" John finally asked. Aberdeen flinched but kept her face free of emotion.

"Gideon was my twin brother. Our mother died shortly after our first birthday. I'm afraid I barely remember her, though my father always swore I had the look of her. After our mother passed, father grew distant from the family and Roderick was away at school most of the time. Gideon was my only friend growing up. We'd make a game of our deductions, even though Gideon was always much better at it than me. We were thick as thieves as children, but when Gideon and I turned twelve, father had him sent away to boarding school with Roderick. Roderick hated Gideon. He tortured him at school, playing terrible pranks on him and getting him into fights with older boys. Gideon ended up running away, much to our father's great disappointment. Father had Gideon sent to live with our widow uncle in the country, and I was able to visit him. He was much happier with our uncle, far away from Roderick and father.

"He managed to get into university without father's blessing and did far better than Roderick, much to Roderick's chagrin of course. By that time, though, the family wealth had begun to dwindle. Our solicitor had been syphoning the family funds and pouring them into bad investments. My father was ruined and he had to choose which son would be able to stay in university. Sadly, he chose Roderick because he was the eldest. Ashamed and penniless, Gideon enlisted in the army in the hopes proving himself worthy to father. Gideon's letters from India are…vague at best. It's clear he didn't fit into the regiment, just like he didn't fit into boarding school. But now he couldn't run away to our uncle's farm, so instead he chose to slip away into opium.

"Father was already near death when we received word that Gideon had been placed in the army hospital. It was Roderick's idea to tell father Gideon had contracted malaria rather than telling father that his son was an addict. At the time I agreed with the decision. Father went peacefully and Gideon followed a month later."

John took a moment to absorb Aberdeen's confession. She was turned away from him, contemplating the fireplace in silence. He cleared his throat.

"Aberdeen, I didn't mean…"

"John!" Sherlock yelled as he burst out the laboratory, a greasy wisp of smoke following him out. Aberdeen's nose crinkled slightly in disgust as a sulfuric order filled the room.

"I swear Holmes; if you ruin my equipment-"Aberdeen started to snarl.

"I don't have time for your vague threats woman," Sherlock quickly dismissed her with a wave of his hand, his attention locked on to John. John's gaze flickered to Aberdeen. He was startled to find a wounded expression sweeping across her delicate features as a swell of blood rose up in her cheeks. Aberdeen quickly swept away from the pair and out of the study. John listened intently as her feet pounded on the steps, followed by the slamming of the front door.

"John, I need you-"

"No," John snapped.

"What?" Sherlock baulked, his eyes narrowed.

"Whatever it is you want from me, I refuse," John replied resolutely. Sherlock's gaze flickered over John coldly, his mouth set in a tight line.

"I suppose Aberdeen will be sufficient-"

"No Sherlock, leave her alone," John let out in an exasperated sigh. John threw up his hands. "Do you have any idea what she's been through? What's she's going through right now?"

Sherlock stared at John, his dark head tilted to one side as he contemplated his smaller companion. His mouth turned down at the corners as he looked away.

"I should have known you'd get emotionally involved," Sherlock sighed, shaking his head.

"I beg your pardon?" John gaped, insulted.

"You've become emotionally involved in the case, John," Sherlock replied as if he were spelling out something to a child. John's face flushed angrily but Sherlock pressed on. "I should have seen this coming. An attractive young woman, intelligent, cultured, in need of help. The gentlemen hero in you is nearly tripping over himself to impress her. And yet it's completely illogical, John. We've travelled back in time. There's no saying we'll be able to return to the future, and there's definitely no way to bring her with us. And on top of that, she's not our client, she's our victim. Try to think with the brain in your head and not the one in your pan-"

Sherlock's tirade was quickly cut off by a left hook from John. Sherlock groaned, stumbling backwards and sprawling into Aberdeen's sofa. A trickle of blood sprouted from the ruptured corner of his lower lip. Sherlock glared up at John in disbelief.

The doctor's chest heaved with anger, his cheeks flushed as sweat beady his brow. He looked away from Sherlock, his fist curling and uncurling sporadically. He finally shot a glare at Sherlock.

"Try to remember, Sherlock, that she isn't a body. She's a human being. Our duty to her right now is to keep her that way," John snarled through clenched teeth. Sherlock glowered back at John until the smaller man shook his head and left.


	10. An Experiment in Addictions

Sherlock puffed away at his pipe, grimacing as each drag stung his cheek and lower lip. An ugly bruise was already forming over the right side of his face, much to his disgust. He should have known John would have let himself get attached. That was what John did. He was the emotional side, the counterbalance Sherlock needed to focus.

Sherlock sat up a little straighter as he heard the soft steps on the stairs. The study door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, admitting Aberdeen into the room. The young woman looked a bit ragged, her cheeks and lips wind chapped, her hair ruffled, and the bottom trail of her dress was wet. The strong odor of fish and filth wafted off of her as she threw aside her damp cloak. She glanced up at Sherlock from her red rimmed eyes, a watery smile gracing her face.

"Couldn't sleep?" she murmured lightly, shedding her jacket and throwing it down beside the cloak. Sherlock made a no communicable noise, averting his gaze. Aberdeen let out a heavy huff of air that might have been a laugh. Her boots were quickly toed off and dropped beside the door. She strode quietly over to Sherlock and took his chin in-between her fingers. His head shot up in surprise, nose wrinkling and forming a line between his brows. Aberdeen shushed him, twisting his head towards the dim firelight to study the bruise that was now covering the side of his face.

"John's handiwork I see," she laughed dully, tracing a finger across the swell. Sherlock forced himself not to wince at the feathery touch. "I have some balm that will dull the pain and take out some of the swelling," she offered.

"I don't want it," Sherlock muttered.

"At least let me clean your lip," Aberdeen reasoned. Sherlock reluctantly nodded to the woman. She disappeared down the stairs again and returned ten minutes later with a tray. Aberdeen placed the tray on the table before lighting lamp beside Holmes. She studied his face under the brighter light for a moment; her lips pursed, then shook her head. She turned, retrieving a wet cloth from the tray, and held it out to Holmes.

"Hold this to your lip for a few minutes. I need to get out of these clothes before I catch the plague," Aberdeen huffed playfully.

"Or worse, you give it to me," Sherlock deadpanned. Aberdeen's green eyes shot to his face, her eyes narrowed slightly. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards.

"Holmes, did you just make a joke?" she murmured. Sherlock looked away pointedly, dabbing at his lip. Aberdeen snorted and left the room. Sherlock listened with half an ear as the young woman pattered about her chambers, which would be his in the future. Or is now? Sherlock frowned deeply. Time travel really wasn't his area of expertise.

Aberdeen returned swiftly, wiping her hands dry on a towel. Sherlock was pleased to note the young woman had thoroughly washed her face and hands while she was changing into her dressing gown. Aberdeen pulled a stool up beside Sherlock's chair, her shoulder brushing against his knee. A hint of spice wafted off of her skin as she gentle maneuvered his chin around again.

"Cloves?" he asked softly. She nodded once. He raised a dark brow mockingly. "You know they don't actually ward off the plague."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I know. But I happen to like the smell of cloves, though, so I use them in my soaps," Aberdeen snapped, but her lips turned up in a delicate smile. Sherlock snickered. Aberdeen extracted the cloth Sherlock had been holding to his lip gently, laying it aside. Her index finger traced around the split in his lip softly, barely brushing the bruised skin. Her fingers were cool against Sherlock's skin, a welcome comfort he realized.

"That will smart for a few days but it won't be stitches luckily. I'd have to wake Dr. Watson to fix you up and somehow I doubt he'd be gentle about the procedure," Aberdeen scolded. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the young woman, realizing she was teasing him. "I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done for the bruise for now. Is there anything I could get you at least?" Aberdeen asked politely. Sherlock sneered.

"A 7% solution of cocaine would be helpful," he replied off handedly. Aberdeen stiffened and quickly looked away.

"I'm afraid you're on your own for that one, Holmes," she retorted stiffly.

"I noticed," Sherlock sighed, slumping in his chair dejectedly. "I've already prowled through your books and laboratory this evening. All of your hidden nooks are empty but the hidden compartment in the hearth still has a needle kit inside, which means you haven't put the habit behind you."

"This was Gideon's house first," Aberdeen whispered, glancing towards the hidden nook in the fireplace. "I cleaned out all of his paraphernalia when I moved in except for that last bit. I don't know why exactly I kept it."

"You kept it because this house is a mausoleum to Gideon. His clothes are in the closets, his books on the shelves, even his needle in the fireplace. You can't let his ghost go." Sherlock leaned forward to peer into her face. "You still take the needle out to look at it. You'll spend hours sitting here just studying it."

"Because it's Gideon's murderer and I can't even hurt it," Aberdeen whispered. Sherlock sat back with a sneer.

"Gideon killed himself," he told her sternly. Aberdeen's head shot up, her eyes burning with fury.

"You really are a rich bastard, Holmes. Have you ever had to look in the mirror every day and see the face of your dead brother looking back? He may have been just some poor, lost soul to everyone else but he was the only one who understood me," she paused, taking in a shallow breath, "He was my world."

Sherlock remained silent for a long time. The wood in the hearth crackled, throwing shadows over the pair as they wrestled with their inner demons.

"You've been down to the Thames," Sherlock finally muttered. Aberdeen nodded loosely.

"They pulled another body out of the river about a half mile from where they found Mary Tupper. A young girl, about fifteen. An unfortunate," Aberdeen muttered. Her fingers twisted in her lap.

"Not one of yours?" Sherlock asked politely, even though he knew the answer.

"No, she was a Whitechapel girl. Botched abortion. Dead before she hit the water. I can't decide if that's a blessing or not," Aberdeen sighed, scratching at her scalp. Sherlock reached forward without thinking and began plucking the pins from her hair. Aberdeen baulked, throwing him an odd look. Sherlock sent her a pointed glare before quickly pulled her back towards him and began plucking the pins from her hair again. Aberdeen sighed, leaning against his knee as he carded his fingers through her auburn ringlets.

"I take it back, Holmes," Aberdeen murmured contently, "You'd make a great lady's maid." Sherlock snickered. Aberdeen cleared her throat.

"Alexander is coming over tomorrow for tea. He wants to meet Gideon's 'friends' for himself. It's obviously Roderick's doing, but I felt I should warn you," Aberdeen murmured bashfully.

"That's not all you want to say," Sherlock supplied immediately. Aberdeen's shoulders slumped.

"I won't beg, Holmes. I still have my pride but please…" she drew in a shaky breath, "Alexander is a good man and he's been kind to me. In a few days you'll be gone and I'll still be here. I have to plan for that inevitable."

"You're boring life with Captain Hastings. A dozen screaming children flocking about your skirts. He'll lock you up the moment the ring is on your finger, Aberdeen. He'll never let you go on like this," Sherlock snarled. Aberdeen shot up, knocking over the stool.

"What other choice do I have, Holmes? Do you forget the place of women? This isn't your time! It's my duty as a woman," Aberdeen lashed out. Sherlock jerked to his feet, grabbing Aberdeen by the shoulders and held her in place.

"Damn their rules, Aberdeen! You're so much more then they'll ever be and yet you lower yourself to their standards!" Sherlock yelled. Aberdeen shook her head, her mouth pulling into a wry grimace.

"Why do you even care, Sherlock Holmes?" she scoffed. Sherlock's nerves snapped. He rocked forward, lowering his head until his lips hovered over hers. Aberdeen froze up.

"Don't," she whispered, her breath fanning against his lips. Her eyes were wide with terror. Sherlock gazed at her, his pale eyes sparking like lightning as his brain raced.

"Don't" she repeated, louder. "I'm not you." Sherlock moved back a few inches, putting space between them. Aberdeen crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes hard now. "I won't be an experiment, Holmes. Just another way for you to starve off addiction and boredom. I've seen the way you look at things, taking them apart with your mind and putting them back together again. Everything is pure logic to you and yet emotions baffle you. So you try to twist them to your advantage. I won't be played like that Holmes," she warned him. Sherlock blinked at her, his face blank.

"And what if I said I wanted to?" he asked flatly.

"You don't," she replied.

"I might," he murmured, leaning forward again. Aberdeen slapped a hand across his chest, pushing him back.

"You don't," she told him sternly, her mouth set in a hard line. "Tomorrow the novelty will have worn off and you'll be back to your wits. I suggest you forget right now that you even proposed something so ridiculous."

Aberdeen turned smartly on her heel and left him there to ponder.


	11. A Matter of Honor Amongest Army Doctors

Breakfast was a tense affair the next morning. John's eyes kept leaping guiltily to Sherlock's vibrantly bruised cheek while Aberdeen kept her distance from the detective. Sherlock remained much to himself, puffing away at his pipe, curled up in his chair petulantly ignoring the party as a whole. Aberdeen informed John of Captain Hastings impending visit that afternoon. John listened attentively as Aberdeen pepper the meal with tiny details about Gideon.

"I feel like I'm back at Bart's waiting to take my terms," John laughed nervously. Aberdeen smiled, shaking her head patiently.

"Alexander and Gideon never met. Everything you need to know I've already given you. Alexander is under the impression Gideon died of malaria. As long as we fail to mention his later proclivities, Alexander should remain fooled," Aberdeen sighed. Sherlock shifted spasmodically in his chair, shooting Aberdeen a glower.

"Aren't you the least bit perturbed that you're going to marry a man that stupid?" Sherlock snapped. Aberdeen's tea cup slapped down on the table, nearly shattering under her hand.

"You're on my last nerve already after that stunt last night, Mr. Holmes! I suggest you budge up, shut up, and at least pretend to be a decent human being for once in your ugly life," Aberdeen snarled. John shot the young woman a startled look.

"Aberdeen," John started, his voice stern, "I think you're being a bit harsh."

"Don't try to defend me, John," Sherlock interrupted. He sat up in his chair, his eyes locked with Aberdeen's. "Miss Knight is under the impression that I am acting out because she rejected my advances last night."

"You're what?" John sputtered, dropping his tea cup. Aberdeen's face drained of color but she kept her eyes locked firmly on Sherlock. Aberdeen rose stiffly from her chair, carefully crafting her face into a blank manner.

"The atmosphere in this house today is stifling," Aberdeen murmured politely, circling past Holmes to retrieve a light wrap from beside the door. "I think I'll take a walk in the park to clear my head before Alexander's visit."

"I'll join you," John added, jumping to his feet. Aberdeen glanced at him sidelong. John raised a brow. "That is unless you prefer to go alone?"

"No, Dr. Watson, I'd be honored by your company."

"Absolutely _honored_, John," Sherlock drawled, his tone honey sweet but filled with bitter sarcasm. John glared at the irksome man and left without saying goodbye.

Aberdeen let out a heavy sigh as soon as they were out of the house. John shot her an apologetic smile, weaving her hand into the crook of his elbow as he led her down the sidewalk. Aberdeen cast him a small smile as they strolled, meandering their way towards Regent Park.

"I feel I should apologize for Sherlock's behavior," John started as they entered the park. Aberdeen laughed bitterly.

"Don't bother Dr. Watson. I'm not unaware of the arrogances of one such as Mr. Holmes. Gideon's penchants began much sooner than his tour in India. Holmes' drug of choice isn't opium, its danger," Aberdeen murmured, shaking her head. John chuckled.

"I can't disagree with you on that. I have to admit, this case is a bit out of our usual sphere," John thought aloud. Aberdeen waited for him to continue, her face shinning with curiosity.

"I suppose the time travel is a bit off kilter," Aberdeen supplied.

"Oh it's not just that," John rattled on, "It's the crime itself. Usually Sherlock and myself come into the investigation after the crime has been committed. This is our first investigation that we have the living soul working with us to…"

"To find her own killer," Aberdeen finished for him. John nodded solemnly. He glanced at Aberdeen's darkened face.

"I'm sorry. I know it must be upsetting to keep hearing us repeat," John murmured. Aberdeen opened her mouth to reply but was quickly cut off by a shrill scream. Aberdeen jerked away from John in surprise and turned towards the source of the screams. Two sets of ginger heads pounded off of the park's greens and flew at Aberdeen.

"Miss Knight! Miss Knight!" the children chanted as they danced around Aberdeen, their hands clasped in a ring around the woman. A laugh bubbled out of Aberdeen's mouth as she turned to John, waving her hand at the two children.

"Dr. Watson, let me introduce you to Lydia and Edwina Moran," Aberdeen said in the way of an introduction. The twins stopped circling the woman and turned to blink up at John with wide blue eyes. He was humored to find that the girl's young, pale face weren't spared an inch by an array of freckles. They grinned up at him, both of them missing a front tooth. He guessed their ages to be about eight.

"Good afternoon ladies," John teased, touching the brim of his hat in greeting. The twins giggled and curtsied playfully for John. Aberdeen had set a gentle hand on each girl's shoulder.

"Where is your nanny, girls? Surely your mother must be a fright that you've taken off?" Aberdeen scolded lightly. The girls didn't look a bit ashamed as look slyly between themselves.

"Our nanny's fallen asleep under a tree," one of the girls started.

"So we thought we'd have ourselves an adventure," the other finished in a lisp. Aberdeen shook her head but a smile was tugging at the seam of her lips.

"Come along girls. We should have you back to your poor nanny before she has a fit," Aberdeen sighed. John chuckled under his breath and followed the unlikely trio over a small rise and into a grove of short shrub trees. They stumbled upon the twin's distraught nanny very quickly. The woman quickly scolded the girls, her Irish accent growing thicker as her embarrassment grew.

John held his tongue until the nanny had shuttled the Moran girls away, then shot Aberdeen a curious glance.

"The girls live on lower end of Baker Street, near Marylebone. Their father opened a small tailoring business and have done very well for the family, though some of our neighbors are less attune to the idea of allowing 'persons of their ilk' to live in their neighborhood," Aberdeen told him, her brows pressed together bitterly. John glanced over his shoulder, his brows shooting up before he looked back to Aberdeen.

"You mean because the family is Irish?" he asked. Aberdeen shot him a sad look, wrapping her arm around the crook of his elbow.

"Have things really changed that much where you come from?" Aberdeen asked politely, her green eyes gazing sharply into him. John felt his cheeks flush as he looked away, his memories drifting to the war.

"I suppose not," John muttered dejectedly.


End file.
